


A Perfect Soldier

by Riakomai, Saltikitti



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AT WHAT POINT DOES IT NOT BECOME CANON, Abuse, Alternate universe where cw never happened, Amnesia, Anyways, Blood, Burning, But not classical music, CA:TWS, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Classical conditioning, Dear lord where do I begin, Depression, Did you guys know AO3 is not blocked on the school wifi, Drugs, Electrocution, Flashbacks, Gen, Gore, Hallucinations, I hope, Medical, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Mental Illness, Murder, Nazis, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-con (but not sexually), PTSD, Pain, Pills, Post-CA:TWS, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Psychology, Seizures, Surgery, Torture, Trust Issues, Violence, WWII, War, and now onto the not-tw tags, but Pandora Radio is, dear god, electroshock therapy, especially if bad writing is one of your triggers, god I hate this school, if you have literally any triggers at all you probably shouldn't read this, illegal stuff, induced seizures, jk jk I'm not that bad, memory problems, so I can get gay porn, so much blood, though that should be a give in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-30 05:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 20,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10870263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riakomai/pseuds/Riakomai, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saltikitti/pseuds/Saltikitti
Summary: ...but not a good man.Hydra was fine with that, after all, that's what the Winter Soldier was made to be, but as for the soldier himself, well, he was starting to have his doubts.Doubts are dangerous things though, things that have landed him in a dank cell hidden underneath the Avengers Tower with two strangers on the other side of the locked door. At least, hethinksthey're strangers...Written for the 2017 Captain America Reverse Big Bang with art by Riakomai.





	1. P1

**Author's Note:**

> Just saying, this is written in 3rd person limited, and switches back between Steve's and Bucky's POV. Whose POV it is will be in the chapter notes, along with the date the scene takes place. The first five chapters are basically a prequel (aka why they are titled P#).  
> Big shoutout to @Tipsy_Kitty and Jetpackedblue for beta-ing my work, and to @Riakomai for making the amazing piece of artwork that inspired this!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prequel part 1/Bucky

"Cut it out will ya? It's annoying."

Bucky threw himself against the bars again, shoulder first as it was the only place that wasn't already covered in bruises.

"At this rate you're going to give yourself internal bleeding, 'sarge," said another solemn voice from across the room.

He grunted. "I wouldn't have to if you guys helped." He paused to survey the room, the men trapped inside looked at him coolly. "Is Dugan-"

A French accent cut him off. "Can’t blame him. Better than facing reality."

The snores echoed through the concrete room like a fog horn; and they called _him_ annoying.

He seethed, body throbbing to the rhythm of his heart. "Do you guys even want to get out?"

The following silence was complemented by an owner-less cough from the shadows. _Great._

Somebody put a hand on his shoulder. It felt like nothing compared to the invisible weight he already carried. "Give it a rest, James," a gruff voice said as softly as it could. "We accepted our fate the moment we signed those forms. It's time for you to do the same."

He shrugged it off, and the man made no attempt to put it back. "We can't just-" He looked back to the eyes in the shadows, to the soldiers that lay on rotting blankets stained with red, and the others who sat against the walls in silence. "Someone might-"  
"It's been weeks--"

"Maybe more." A voice piped in.

"--if anyone was coming they would be here already." The shuffle of boots was the only thing that told him the stranger had left his side.

He let himself slide down the wall, into a position on the ground where his knees blocked most of his sight. 

"That's it..." Something brushed against his arm as they sat down. He didn't look to see who it was. "Now close your eyes and breathe." There was a whistling noise as they followed their own advice. "Now c'mon. You do it."

He eventually gave in, if only to stop the well-meant nagging. The man's promises of relaxation were shockingly true, but they came with contingencies. As the tension magically left him, the aches and pains of his tattered body came back with a vengeance.  
However, as the pain sunk in so did the tiredness he'd been pushing away since the beginning of this nightmare, and there was no turning back after his eyes shut.

He awoke to the sound of voices, and to his alarm not all of them English.

"What are they saying?" Dugan whispered, his own terror mirrored on the round face.

The man on his left, who he recognized as the same one that helped him fall asleep, raised his hands defensively. "Hell if I know! I don't speak Nazi."

"Actually it's German-" The speaker was cut off with an eye roll.

He tried to push himself up, tried to understand what the hell was going on, but the bruises and cuts on his palms wouldn't allow for it.

"Here." A callused hand helped him up from the ground, away from the grit he used as a bed.

"What-" His voice was rough like two rocks being scraped together, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't feel the same. "What's going on?" The taste of dust was heavy on his tongue, leftover from whatever he inhaled off the floor last night.

"No clue." Dugan’s mustache wiggled as he spoke "But whatever it is I'm sure it's bad."

Bucky pressed his face against the bars, trying to get a glimpse at the situation occurring at the front of the hallway. "Enlightening as always, Pinky."

Despite the situation, his sarcasm was followed by a series of badly hidden laughter. Some even came from the victim himself. Though it was a nice break, he had to shush it after a moment.

“See anything?” Warm breath tickled his ear as someone squeezed in next to him.

Footsteps echoed through the halls with unknown intent, jarring against the silence like a scream that sent chills down their spines.

“I don’t like this.” said a soft voice, it’s source one of the bleeding men on the blankets. Bucky had assumed him dead until this point, and his voice was new to most ears in the room.

Dugan paid no mind to the man’s apparent resurrection, and openly shared what he thought about his words. “ _Nobody_ likes this, you-”

“Be quiet.” Bucky snapped, mistakenly attributing the pause in footsteps to the loud insults overlapping them. But even as the fight drained out of the men, any footsteps remained inaudible, replaced instead by the voices of soldiers _outside_ the cell. He pulled away from the bars, three thick, rosy lines marked where he’d pushed against them and flakes of rust stuck to his cheeks like freckles. He didn’t know the torturous German language, but he did know what a fight sounded like.

“They’re arguing…” Said a man from against the bars, unknowingly confirming Bucky’s unspoken thoughts.

Everyone started sharing their theories. It was, after all, the first time they'd had something to talk about since arriving.

“Maybe one screwed the other’s gal.”

“No way; I heard Germans are like ice.”

He rolled his eyes, and even as the footsteps resumed he thought himself silly that he'd gotten scared over their domestic problems. Maybe he needed some more sleep.

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

He turned to the source of his name, expecting to see another soldier that had crawled out of the shadows but instead found himself staring through the bars at a uniformed man. Large and unwary, his presence alone silenced the room.

His body went cold, the thought that maybe they, or at least this one, understood English and had heard their invasive theories was horrifying. The click of the cell lock, a sound they had once imagined would bring happiness, only provided terror.

He gestured Bucky forewards as the cell door slid open with high pitched, metallic whines; behind him stood two more men that had gone unnoticed till then.

It seemed as if every time he stepped back, they stepped forwards. _Shitshitshitshit-_

A hand on his chest send an new rush of fear through him, as if he wasn't already having enough trouble breathing.

“Back off.” said the owner of the hand, uncharastically threatening. Dugan, as he found out, can be scary if he wants to be, an effect that even affected Bucky.

The man turned his head to face his protector, but nothing else moved with it. It was as if everything below his neck had been submerged in concrete.

Pinky slid in front of one of the soldiers, ever the reckless one, and held his position even when one reached up to his hip the retrieve something. They didn't even have to see it to know what it was.

Among the ever growing shield of men, Bucky couldn't help but feel small, and, he dare say it, a bit guilty. Most of these men he'd only know for a few weeks, and his impulsive behavior hadn't made him many friends, yet they were risking death to protect him like they were family. And among the terror and sweat, he couldn't help but feel like they were.

That just made his screams even louder as they were beaten.

“Let go of me,” He trashed as they grabbed his arms, not caring if they even understood him. Letting his legs go weak, his knees hit the floor with the sound of tearing fabric and flesh, and the rest of him followed. A sickening snap echoed through the room as he used his place on the ground to his advantage. One of the soldiers screamed at the ankle that, despite him facing the back of the room, pointed to the bars in the front.

A dark boot burrowed into the soft skin of his stomach like a bullet. Crying out, he shakily got into his knees, and was about to stand when another blow to his side sent him into the hard wall. He wanted to call for help, and even his pride was temporarily allowing it, but his comrades were busy fighting off the others.

Not like he could speak anyways, his mouth was full of blood. He tried to push himself up using the wall as support, but a series of crackling noises sent him back to the ground in pain. 

_My rib. They broke my goddamn rib._

He became faint after another burst of pain, cursing the creation of steel-toed boots. But that was the last thing he did, as black soon swelled in his vision.


	2. P2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue/Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't yell at me for the bad German, I used Google Translate lol

As he came to, what he saw was like a scene in a movie (and really, there was nothing that told him it wasn't).

A man stood at the top of the steps, plump and balding like a toddler had pulled out all his hair. There wasn't much else he could see, but the way the man stood, like he had been waiting there for hours, made him uneasy.

“I see you're awake, Mr. Barnes.” He didn't turn to face him, but the fat around his jaw stretched as he talked just as well as any lips could. “I apologize for the restraints but you were apparently very uncooperative.”

Despite his body strongly protesting against it, he forced himself to a sitting position. Like the man had said, he was indeed restrained, but much less than he would've thought. Only a pair of handcuffs kept him from choking the life out of this man, and even then they weren't much of an obstacle.

The pain of his wounds no longer hurt on the surface, instead they sunk deep into the muscle with rhythmic throbs. He wondered how long he'd been out, and why the man looked so familiar. “I know who you are,” Bucky said, one hand looking for his thumb and the other shaking with nerves. It turned out to be a surprisingly difficult task to do behind your back.

“And who would that be?” The man's expression, when he finally saw it, was strangely relaxed and neutral.

“You're Arnim Zola.” He'd found his thumb, now all he had to do is stop his hand from shaking. “You're a scientist for Hydra. Read your files.”

“And yet you seem unfazed.”

“I am just a bit, but just because I took you more as the skittish type.”

The man smirked at that, just a small curve at the edges of his lips. “I can be sometimes, however, this wing of the building is my arena. Sectioned off and tucked away for my own personal use.”

“That use-” He swallowed down a whisper of pain as he pressed on his thumb, “being?” The answer was obvious, an anxiety-inducing thought he couldn't get rid of. It got in the way of things. Focus on escaping, he had to tell himself, not what comes if you don't. Pop, pop- he waited for the fated snap of his thumb but instead the door swung open. Had his thumb broken? Did he just not hear the snapping? It felt broken (the pain was a strong confirmation of that), and yet he couldn't push it through the cuffs. Maybe he did it wrong? This was the first time-

“Well, James, the answer to your question is about to be answered.”

Gruff hands took his arms, seemingly with the goal to make his shoulder blades touch by how tight they held them together. Fear seized him again, although it never really left, and he kicked one of the men in the stomach. A groan of pain and squeak of shoes on the tile echoed around the room, but it was no help, and the hands were back on him almost instantly.

Were these all the same guys from earlier? He couldn't much tell as they lifted his arms up, but he was sure by some strange sensory déjà vu one of the pairs of hands had touched him before. 

They dragged him down the hallway, kicking and dragging his heels behind him. Traction was hard to get, and his boots fell off only seconds after they walked past the doorway. His feet became bloodied after awhile, especially the heel of his right foot that left a bright red trail behind them. He was sure it must be gone, shaved off like cheese on a grater, but it was still used to land ineffective kicks on his captors. The only result was blood on the back of their uniforms. He yelled into the abyss in a build up of panic, concrete walls sending his pleas throughout the building. Somewhere his friends were lying bloody and beaten, perhaps even dead. Could they hear him? A door was quickly approaching, and though selfish, Bucky wished them deaf for their own sakes.

A cushioned table sat in the middle of the small room, flat and weathered by a past he refused to think about. It was, evidently, not made for comfort, but instead made for utility.

They lifted him onto it, but that's as far as they got before they had to call for backup. Legs had been the area in which they struggled most but an excruciating bend of the knee in the wrong direction had been their savior, causing any movement he made send pain racing up his spine.

Despite everything, he relished in the fact that he'd broken at least two of their noses.

Zola entered moments later, flanked by scrubbed beings almost unidentifiable as humans. None of them took notice of the blood on the floor, as it blended in with the already present stains.

Orders were given in words he couldn't understand; each voice, each movement, felt like pressure against his chest.

Then the doctor turned on music. Specifically, orchestral music. What was this, a waiting room?

He noticed the look on Bucky’s face. “Music has been proven to have calming effects.” He paused and closed his eyes, a small smile on his face. “And personally, I like listening to it while working.”

Paper crackled above him, and there stood another face, this one with light, almost invisible eyebrows that seemed to fly off at the sight of him. “Wir machen das, während er bewusst ist? _(We’re doing this while he's conscious?)_ ” The young man said worriedly. Bucky would've asked what he said, but he couldn't speak past the panic he felt.

Zola, still working with something on the counter, replied with, “Es geht so schneller. (It metabolizes faster this way.)”

His face scrunched up, but he continued with his job with utmost dedication.

It wasn't just him that seemed opposed to the idea, a few nurses by the cabinets shook their heads disapprovingly before going back to their tasks.

Something tight was wrapped around his arm, it stunk of rubber and chafed against his skin painfully.

There was a sudden, stinging cold under it, of which the source (a wet cloth) was cautiously raised to his eye level. How considerate.

Things were quickly performed, then traded out for something else, like a juggling act too fast for him to see anything but a blur. His shirt was unbuttoned by a nimble hand, and rubbed down with alcohol on rags. They pressed too hard on the bruises which, while varying in age, hurt all the same. Then he was covered again, not with his shirt, but with multicolored wires that stuck to his skin.

His head hurt. He stunk of antiseptic. And he was terrified.

Nothing they said he could understand. A woman listed off things that sounded more like coughing than words, and yet held everyone's attention. The small, sharp ring of metal hitting metal next to him seemed deafening.

“What's that?” he croaked out, chest rising up and down with breaths that barely gave him enough air to stay conscious, let alone speak.

“Fret not, James. Won't be more than a pinch.”

He retched at his name. _Shut up, shut up, shut up._ He wanted to scream, _don't ruin that for me too,_ but his mouth was stuffed with a rag as soon as it opened.

Zola didn't do anything but watch. Perhaps he felt higher than the rest, or maybe the complete opposite, but he'd passed the syringe to a nurse, anticipation burning in his eyes like hellfire.

There’d been many moments in which he looked into the face of death, ‘tis the life of a soldier and all, but he'd never been afraid of it. But this time was different. This time, he was afraid of life, and how much pain might come with it.

He'd seen the stories, watched the news, read all the damn files that he could get his hands on. He knew Hydra in and out and that included what they could do, what they've _tried_ to do.

And he knew he wouldn't let himself be another brick in their path.

He twisted his elbow as the nurse touched it, the most he could do while still restrained. She looked at him with wide, questioning eyes, like she couldn't understand why he didn't want to be stabbed with a needle. A few German words were all that were needed to solve the problem though, as someone took his shoulder and pulled on it till it popped, and then more just for good measure. He tried to scream, but choked on the rag instead.

Shots had always terrified him. When he was a kid, and even a bit after that, he'd act like they were nothing so Steve wouldn't be afraid when he got his (which there were always more of.) But despite the facade, he could never truly get over the fear that seized his body.

So when the woman's fingers reached his paralyzed arm and the needle poised above his skin, he shut his eyes and felt the rush of fire climb up his veins. Someone turned up the radio. The violins, drums, and piano seemed to only endorse the pain.

He forced himself to imagine Steve, but the music became too loud for him to think.


	3. P3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue/Bucky

The fevering had started awhile ago, but no one seemed alarmed. Not even Bucky, who despite the odds was still somewhat lucid.

Everyone had left to go somewhere else, leaving him with a set of electrodes, an IV, and a nurse who looked half asleep yet still managed to yell at him if he moved. She didn't seem to realize he was still restrained, and even if he wasn't, there was no way his body could go more than an inch before collapsing.

The music continued to play faintly, the nine songs ran on a loop that he'd begun to cling onto to as a distraction.

It hurt. It hurt all over and he just wanted to sleep, but he couldn't. For whenever he would he'd just wake up again with a new pain and it pissed him off like nothing ever had before. Sometimes he'd wish that Zola would come back with some weird drug and that he'd die from it, other times he'd wish the scalpels were closer so he could do it himself.

A telephone rang. The loud, shrill cry felt like daggers in his head and _oh god turn it off._

His prayers were answered after a moment, not by an angel but by the angry lady who'd fallen asleep. Her voice was deep, compensating for the rough sounds of the German language.

He couldn't understand any of it.

The conversation was brief, mostly because of her apparent agreement with the person on the other end, and sighed as she hung the phone up.

“Bist du wach?”

Was that directed at him?

She shook her head, clearly annoyed by his lack of response; it's not like he could have if he wanted to.

The table was littered with pills and other strange liquids, and he was sure most of them had been used on him at some point. 

A snap of rubber sent chills down his spine, but his earlier struggles had left his skin bloody and painful where the restraints sat, so any thrashing would have to wait. Then a light was shone into his eyes, so painfully sudden it left shapes in his vision that jumped whenever he'd blink. The woman seemed satisfied by this result, and scribbled something down before walking out the door.

 

She wasn't gone for long, and if she had been it didn't feel like it. He’d rather enjoyed being left alone, even the pain seemed to dull when he was, but of course it didn't last. These people seemed adamant in not letting him die. What bastards. Zola trailed behind her, a small grin on his face that, while he’d grown used to, still made him sick.

“I see you left the music on.”

Unwillingly, yes.

“Good. Something to keep you here in reality during this next step.”

His voice stung as it traveled through his throat, resulting in something that sounded more like a sob then a word.  
He wasn't sure why he even tried anymore.

Behind him wheels squeaked against the tile floor.

“No need to get all worked up. Things will be much easier for you after this.” The doctor grabbed his shoulder in an act of comfort, unaware that it was the dislocated one. Or maybe he was aware and was even more sadistic than previously thought. Either way, it made a small whimper escape his lips. It was, of course, ignored.

He noted that there were less people in the room this time, and that the man standing behind his head was not the blonde one from earlier. Shame. It seemed like all the ones who had opposed the earlier procedure had been removed. He wondered if it was willingly or by force with a chill up his spine.

Something was placed over his head, something cold and looking a bit worse for wear from what he could see (which wasn't much), while a stranger readjusted the electrodes on his his chest, removing and reapplying the few that had been vandalized by the sheen of sweat on his body.

A woman sat by the monitors, following the bouncing green line with stern, cold eyes. She began to list off things, single-syllable words and numbers that made no sense yet still sent terror through him.

Zola nodded to her appreciatively, before turning back to him. “State your name and any other relevant information about you that you can manage.”

Speaking was like swallowing razors blades. “Why?” It was strange, even by the doctor’s standards, and yet he demanded it like it was priceless. A pen clicked behind him. Perhaps they needed it for a death certificate? Something to show to the men back in the cell? _Yes, we killed your friend. Yes, it was a horrible death. Yes, you're next if you don't behave._  
But, with the small about of rebellion still humming inside him, he made the conscious decision to not tell them anything. You can kill me, turn me inside out them back again if that's what you want, but you can't make me talk.

Zola saw it, the small flare of resistance burning in the eyes of the dead man, and it only made him more vicious. “Don't play this game with me, James.” He spat, “You have no room to negotiate.”

He wasn't negotiating. The doctor had his demands, he had his, and they were both carved in stone. Nobody wins.

He lent over to the nurse nearest to him, and whispered something into her ear. The German language was loud and harsh from what he'd seen, so he could only imagine how difficult it was to bring it to a whisper, but he did, and so the nurse departed.

“I'm giving you one last chance.” He scolded, every crooked tooth visible as he spoke. “Infomation. Now. It's going to make everything a lot easier for the both of us.” The man pulled the glasses off his face solemnly, and wiped the spit onto a napkin which had been readily handed to him.

No it won't be. Or, not at him at least. What do the Germans say again? Americans are selfish and fight only for themselves? Well, here he was, an American, and the only interests he's going to concern himself with are his own right now.

There was a scuffling in the hallways, grunting and shouting followed close behind. Zola smiled as a man was pushed through the door and into the floor. Like he was a kitten, one of his escorts pulled him up by the back of his shirt.  
“You know this man, yes?”

He didn't respond, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Yes, he did know this man. Not much, but anyone with a bleeding leg and the guts to start a fight with Dugan deserved recognition. The man couldn't even stand.

Despite his state, he was the first one to speak, “James, I'm not sure what this is about but no matter what they do to me don't-” The butt of a gun hit is jaw mid word, sending a crack and scream echoing through the small room.

What a psychopath. All this over a bit of information that hadn't any real use. Admittedly, he did start this, but to fold now? To let Zola know that seeing this hurt him more than any strange experiment thrown at him? He could use that against him in so many ways. “I don't know this man.” He choked out. It was the only thing that gave either of them a chance of making it out of here, even if that chance was smaller than the tip of the needle in his arm.

The man caught on quickly, “Yeah! I-” He began to stutter and Bucky could feel his stomach drop. “I'm from the cell over. Only know his name from stories.”

The doctor raised a thinning eyebrow, “So you don't know each other at all?”

In unison the two men nodded their heads, one more painfully than the other, but there was a click and they both stilled.

“If that's the case, you don't mind, do you?” The crooked smile was but a blurry spot in the corner of his eye.

The man trembled and his eyes began to water, but kept his composure as he'd been taught. A bullet didn't need to be shot for Bucky to start speaking, the barrel that pressed into the man’s hair was enough to send him over the ledge. Fuck petty rebellion, a man was about to die.

“My name’s James Buchanan Barnes and I'm 28 years old. I'm a sergeant for the army’s 107th infantry regiment. I was born March 10th 1917, and my serial number is 32557038.” He said it all in one breath, and had he not been the one saying it he would've found the blur of words undecipherable, but Zola seemed to understand every word in the jumble. “Now let him go.”

“Well aren't you a boy scout! Putting others before you! No wonder your soldiers love you. But…” he trailed off, “you did disobey, which is something I can't risk you doing again. Perhaps negative reinforcement will get you out of the habit?” The shot was deafening, the sound of the body hitting the floor even more so, but nothing could compare to his screaming. “I swear to god I'm going to make you pay for this! You scum! You filthy-” Something tasteless and rubbery was shoved into his mouth, choking him mid-word. “Best keep your mouth shut.” Behind his white lab coat the limp, bloody corpse was hauled out of the room like an oversized rag doll. He could feel the vomit at the back of his throat. “Wouldn't want that mouthpiece falling out, now would we? Might break your jaw.”

He spit it out onto the floor, where an assistant picked it up with nothing but a disappointed glance at him.

The man’s mouth twitched, “Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you.” He nodded to the man behind him grimly. “Now repeat the information you said a minute ago.”

“Fuck you.” A blinding flash of white turned the room into fuzzy dots, and set his body convulsing with a fire that set off gunfire in his brain.

“How about now?”

The doctor's voice sounded like it was underwater, far away from him and muted, though the words were clear to his ringing ears.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I'm from the army’s 107th infantry regiment.” Or was it the 108th? “I was born March 1917, and my serial number is 32557038.”

“And your age? You forgot to say your age.”  
“Oh.” He started counting in his fingers. It's 1945 minus 1917-

Something squeezed his hand, “What's wrong, James?”

His teeth chattered and the hair on his arms stood up like men at attention. This wasn’t right. “You did something-” he paused to catch his breath, “to me.”

“Yes, I did. And it seems to be working.” Zola said, terrifyingly blunt. The man spared a glance at someone standing behind his head. “Hör nicht auf, bis ich dir sage, egal was passiert. _(Don't stop unless I tell you to, no matter what happens.)_ ”

 

_Hang onto the music,_ he had advised before leaving, but he hung onto something else instead, even though the music notes were stabler.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” He said again, “107th. 32557038.” The words had passed his lips a million times, but seemed more difficult to grab from his mind each time. Some time had passed since the device had been removed, but the sweat and muscle spasms lingered behind.  
 _Again._ “James Buchanan Barnes. 107th. 3255703-” 3255703…? _Dammit. What comes after three. Come on, think! Another three? No, that can't be it._ He was losing it, and he knew it. Those words and numbers were what defined him, they were him, and yet they were disappearing as if they were nothing and it terrified him.  
 _Say it again._ “James Buchanan Barnes. 107th. 3255703.” _Again._ “James Buchanan Barnes. 107th. 32557-”

The door swung open into the wall behind it, and from a man’s silhouette came a name: “Bucky?”

He couldn't speak, even as the man ripped the restraints from his body. _Bucky. That’s my name. He's talking to me._

The blonde helped him up, with a familiar warmth that he couldn't place, maybe just because it's been so long since someone showed it to him. He's obviously a friend, but friends have names, right?

_Steve._ His brain had thrown the name at him. _This is Steve. Steve is-_

_Steve is my friend._


	4. P4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue/Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but painful

THEN 4  
The trek back to camp was a rough one, even excluding his injured shoulder and heel. So, when he could see the camp from where he stood, he felt every muscle come undone (for better or for worse.)

The applause was deafening, and sent ringing pain through his still-throbbing head, but he still clapped anyways. It was hard to believe that this was the same Steve Rogers that he'd been nursing back to health only last year; damn, he _still_ couldn't believe it.

“You need a medic.” said the American hero, concern watering in his eyes.

He shook his head, “Later. There are people in more severe conditions.” 

“Are you sure?” A cursory look was thrown around the camp, mouth parted ever so slightly as he panted. Had he stayed the same way Bucky had left him in back in Brooklyn he'd be dead right now, no, he'd have been a rotting corpse _already._

“Yeah, yeah I'm sure.” He paused, holding his hand above his eyes in an attempt to shield the raging sun. “Is there a tent or somewhere I can go to? I just need a minute to calm down.”

Steve nodded understandably, “Of course. I think the tent on the farthest left side is empty.”

“Thank you, Steve.” He turned to go, “ _Really._ Thank you.” The man stopped him before he could make it any further.

“Are you _sure_ you're alright?” He asked again, surveying him up and down.

“I'm fine. Don't worry.” He gave a weak smile before heading off again. “I’m sure the medics tent would love to have Captain America help out by the way.”

 

A sheen of fine dust from outside lied undisturbed on the scarce furnishings; the cots were all made up for a group that never arrived. He collapsed onto the closest one, muscles weak and leaden, with a sick feeling in his beaten stomach. _It's over. It's all over,_ he reassured himself, _you're safe._ But it still didn't feel that way.

He could still feel a burning in his veins, the pricks of needles long gone but just as painful.  
He could feel eyes watching him from the shadows and lingering static in his mind.  
He could feel everything that happened as if it still was.

Retching into the nearest bucket (thankfully unused) he traded the bed for the cool packed earth and the security the corner of the tent gave him. He tried to push the events out of his mind, to focus on the now instead of the past, but it was a lot harder than he thought it would be.

He stretched out his arm for nothing better to do, and let his eyes wander the markings. If he couldn't forget it he might as well become familiar with it. There were a few points where blood had been quickly wiped away, giving the skin next to them a dark brown tint, and one where the skin had torn (either by his own doing or a nurse’s mistake) and was covered in dirt. He tried to brush some of it off but it was stuck to the blood.

His stomach felt empty, not like it wasn't even before he vomited, and had he not been so tired he'd go out and try and find something to soothe it. But alas, his eyes were closing despite everything, and the ground became his bed once again.


	5. P5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue/Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part of the prologue! (Small time skip to that one bar scene)

Bucky grimaced, “Can you turn that off?” The orchestral music had gone to the quiet strings of a violin, as it had a habit of doing before a crescendo. His voice was muffled by the table he lent on.

“What? Have a problem with Wolfgang?” The man rested his hand on his hip, the other outstretched to one of the decorative metal columns that lined the bar he stood behind.

“No,” Bucky looked up from the table, “just listened to it too many times.”

The bartender laughed as he turned the dial, unaware of the context of his words. “So, you're from the 107th?” A series of drunken whoops followed the number, but none actually joined the conversation.

“Sadly.” he said with a sly smile.

Nodding his head understandingly, the man offered him a drink to which he politely declined. He didn't feel up to it; not now.

“You sure?” He eyed him up and down, “You look like could use one. And plus, your friend over there has a tab open.”

Steve opened a tab? He couldn't believe his ears. Steve wouldn't be drinking, he can't be drinking; it wasn't safe. Or at least it wasn't last time he checked.

The man interrupted his thoughts yet again and slid a shot of straight whiskey to him. “C’mon. It'll help take the edge off.”

He doubted it. His problems were not ones he could solve just by getting drunk (though he wished they were). Encouraging eyes watched him, they were trying to help but it was horribly annoying.

The man was adamant. “Fine, but only one.” Bucky said finally, just to get the man off his back. It burned uncomfortably as it went down and warmed parts of him he thought he'd lost during- “Another.” He said softly, “Please.”

The bartender’s cheeks gained more color as he smiled, “Now that's the spirit! Coming right up!”

 

His eyes were hollow and dark in the amber liquid, they rippled as he brought the glass to his mouth. How many times had he done this? Looked into the same haunting eyes until he could see the bottom of the glass? The alcohol had done nothing but bring awareness to his sunken cheeks and shaking hands.  
 _It's okay, he told himself, you're okay._  
This is perfectly normal.

“This just isn't normal!” the bartender exclaimed, “How do you do it?”

He blinked slowly, his eyelids swatting away at tiredness. “Do what?”

The man gestured at the empty shot glasses that surrounded him, each of them had been reused multiple times before being switched out.  
There was no way he could've drank that much. He wasn't a lightweight, but he'd usually be blackout drunk by nine shots (ten on a good day.) Maybe he was? He knew he was drinking, but didn't recall doing it this much.  
He should be dead right now.

“You can really hold your liquor!”

_Yeah. I guess I can._


	6. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1/Steve/Present Day

"Anything?"

He jumped, eyes stinging as they pulled away from the screen. "N-No."

The metal chair ground into the concrete as she sat, her red curls bouncing against her neck like a boa.

"I should talk to him."

"Yes." She nods, "You should."

Involuntarily, his jaw tightened. "Then why-"

"Steve, he almost killed those police officers." Leaning forward, she said "You need to give him time to calm down."

A shaky breath, a hiss of a pipe. Steve nodded, "I just- he's scared, Nat."

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, her green irises like gun sights. He's not the only one who's scared, they spoke. The chair squeaked as she leaned back. "The best thing we can do for him right now is give him time."

His head throbbed. Today had been chaotic; a blur of cars and paperwork. "We can't just keep him locked in there forever-"

"I never said that we were."

"I know what you said." He pressed his palms on the back of his eyes until colors appeared. A reassuring squeeze of his shoulder was the only thing that kept him from breaking.

“Hey,” Natasha’s lips thinned into a tight smile, “leave the crises to Tony.”

“Have you told him yet?”

“What? That we’re holding the world’s most wanted assassin in his basement?” The monitor flickers, but the picture doesn’t change. “No. I haven’t.”

He could see it now, Tony's shocked expression and the following rage. "You don't have to be the one to tell him."

She considered it for a long, silent moment. "No, I'll be fine. I've dealt with threats way bigger than him."

He had to admit, he was impressed by her courage. “I’ll come with you anyways, just in case you need backup.”

Laughing, her hair swung across her shoulders like a fiery pendulum, but she never declined.

 

They told him the story amid cups of coffee and pieces of a robotic suit that Tony swore had been whole before they came in. Suitcases still stood full against the wall from his trip to L.A.

There was some shock in the beginning, blames of practical jokes thrown around, but in the end his stance on the matter was clear: “Get him out of the tower.”

“And where would we send him?” Watching Natasha and Tony argue was like watching two snakes fight. “You know as well as I do we can't give him to the authorities.”

He scoffed, “Thanks for bribing the police with my money by the way- the stockholders are still demanding an explanation.”

“So pull one out of your ass like you do for everything else, and stop changing the topic.”

The screwdriver crashed onto the tile with a piercing ring that echoed in the silence. He buried his head in his palms.

Excuse after excuse, witty comment after wittier comment; the argument had been going for the last hour and Steve felt like he’d been tied to the circular railroad track the entire time.

“What could I possibly get that would condone him being here?” His voice was heavy with sleep and liquor.

“You-”

“I wasn't asking you, Nat.”

Eyes suddenly went to Steve. Steve, who had until now, been silently watching everything; ready to step in but never finding a good chance.  
Well, now he had the chance he was looking for, but no words to take it.  
He looked to Natasha for help. She seemed to hate him being in the spotlight just as much as he did. He was just using up more time that they didn't have.  
And no, he wasn't going to lie to Tony. Out of the question. Bucky was a security risk, a financial risk, a health risk; he was a giant bundle of risks stuck in the body of his friend, and lying about that would only get people hurt.  
But, he was also a risk that needed help.

Tony opened his mouth to speak, to snarkily end the conversation with an “I told you so” and leave it at that, but Steve beat him in breaking the silence.

“Information.” he said, a bit too quickly.

Behind a piece of glossy metal an eyebrow was raised. Natasha looked on, and there was visible proudness in her smile.

“Bucky-” He cleared his throat, “The Winter Soldier- has vital information about Hydra and their whereabouts. I believe that, if we can get this information, we might have an advantage in our fight.”

Intriguing. Tony was silent for a moment, no, _many_ moments as he thought about it and Steve could almost hear the gears in his mind spinning.

“Do you really think you can get the information out of him?” He tapped his fingers on the workbench, seemingly unaware of how intimidating it was.

Natasha answered for him. “Yes.” She glanced back at Steve, the bright lights of the room mirrored perfectly in her glassy eyes. “I guarantee it.”

Tony shared his shock. _Guarantee_ is such a strong word-

“I'll give you five days.” He said it like a judge sentencing someone to death, “If Barnes can't readily tell me the information when I get back you hand him over to the officials. Deal?”

Her heels clicked on the tile threateningly as she came to stand beside him. “And if he does give you the information?”

“He can stay here until-” Tony waved his fingers around his head, “-everything gets sorted out.”

Natasha nodded. “Deal.” Steve said, voice only wavering at the end.

Tony clapped his hands together. This had gone on long enough, and to put an end to it was like dropping a pair of weights after hours of holding them.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you guys kick me out of my own home.” he said solemnly with a glance to his suitcases.

Steve let out a relieved sigh, “And I can’t believe it had to come to this.”


	7. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2/Steve/Present

Steve woke up in a cold sweat that made the air smell ever so slightly of salt.

He was alone in the room, the fan spun in lazy circles over him but lent no help in his recovery from… whatever it was that woke him.

It was the middle of summer outside the tower and it felt like it. Temperatures were reaching an all time high; worrying scientists, enthralling ice cream truck drivers, and forcing once abandoned community pools into maximum capacity. Despite that, however, the hot air that he let through his window felt good on his slick skin.

He was on one the higher floors of the Avengers Tower; a Rapunzel that while free to leave, usually remained in the building, sometimes just because it had air conditioning.

As the glowing hats of taxis and overly bright headlights of cars passed by, he couldn't help but think back to the older days. Things were certainly less lit up back then. Less… _flourished._  
It wasn't always a bad thing, not in the least, but sometimes he'd find himself wishing for the simpler style of the 1940’s; of _himself._  
No life or death decisions or questions of morality, just him and-

Something touched his arm. Something soft and warm and-he realized as he turned around- _absent._

Bird.

It must've just been a bird.

 

He was surprised to see that someone else was there when he rounded the corner.

Natasha sat in a plush office chair, lazily stripping, and then unstripping, her gun in a practiced routine. In the dark, the monitors cast threatening shadows on the back wall.

"Hey," She said cooly, "What are you doing up?"

He took a seat next to her, the cool metal felt like ice on his back, "I could ask you the same thing."

She took a moment to inspect her gun, like she hadn't just been doing that, and put it on the table. "Somebody needed to watch the security cameras."

He looked up at the screens, empty static plays mutely on one, the rest are trained on a concrete cell and the person it holds. There were worse places they could've put him, but it was still an upsetting sight.

"I could've-"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand, "You needed your sleep."

It was undeniably needed, but whether he wanted it was another question entirely, especially now that he'd learned the price Nat had to pay for it.

She caught his look. "Don't worry, I have caffeine." Picking at a spot on the chair arm, she said, "Speaking of which, don't tell Tony but I spilt some coffee on his chair."

He didn't laugh, instead he pulled out his phone. "It's 4am. If you go up now you can squeeze a few hours of sleep in."

She opened her mouth to object, but Steve already had the response on his lips. "I'll watch the monitors." 

"Thanks for the offer," She picked the steamy cup up off the filing cabinet behind her, "but I'm fine."

He could smell the rich musk of the coffee from where he sat. "Forgive me if I'm wrong," which he hoped he was, "but I'm starting to think you don't trust me with _him._ "

She raised an eyebrow and looked him up and down critically. "Wow. You really need to get some more sleep."

Their eyes met, but hers were the only ones that wavered.

“You’re a good liar, but you struggle when it comes to people you care about.”

She tensed just slightly, a single flaw in her apathetic facade. As someone trained to have none, showing weakness had always been something she approached with a calculated plan. Even among friends the habit stayed in place, and rarely it would let something through. To have a reaction she wasn't in control of was like a drop of water coming through a crack in a dam; unnerving, a betrayal of herself.  
Under the pale skin her jaw rippled. “You’re taking advantage of my good nature.”

The hum of electricity and crackling static were deafening in the silence of the room.

“Why am I suddenly such a threat to you?”

Her hands tightened around the mug. The screens cast the room in a ghastly pale glow. “Barnes’ life isn't the only one at stake here.”

Steve physically revolted. The corners of the chair back bit into his shoulders like knife points; the only thing that grounded the conversation in reality. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

“I think,” she pursed her lips, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “I think emotions are interfering with your decisions more than they usually do.”

It felt as if she had dropped an anvil on his chest, taking away his ability to breathe.

“This is a problem we need to address with a rational mind,” she continued. Her overly calm, monotone voice infuriated him.

The words ripped through him like fire on a trail of gasoline. “Just because something is rational doesn’t mean it’s right.”

No response.

“My emotions are not the problem here, Nat."

The mug reached the table with a clink of glass.  
“I’m not going to fight with you, Steve. You're tired and it's affecting your ability to think straight. We’ll talk more in the morning.” She stood up from the chair with the fine, dignified movements of a cat. The farther she was from the monitor's light the bigger the circles under her eyes appeared.

"I'm not your enemy, Steve. Nor am I his." She slipped past him, but paused in the doorway. "He was my friend too, once."

The room felt bigger without her presence; the emptiness threatened to swallow him whole.

He listened to the clicks of her heels as she walked down the hallway, then the sudden silence as she got into the carpeted elevator.

The realization of how alone he was only hit after the elevator doors closed.

The man in the next room didn't recognize him, the girl who did he'd pushed away; the day had just started but he'd already messed up.

The keyboard hit the wall with a crash; buttons raced through the air like machine-gun fire.  
He had expected Bucky's arrival to be rough, but not for him; not like this.

Everything felt wrong, like a circular peg forced into a square hole. It may fit but that doesn't mean it's right.

He glanced up at the screens, at the sleeping figure they focused on.  
Each time he'd looked the more discouraged he felt. He'd somehow find a new problem before he had a solution to the last one, and the list just kept growing.

He sat down in the plush chair, only vaguely aware that he'd have to be the one to carry it back to Tony's office.

Is this what Bucky felt like? All those years ago when the roles were reversed? Steaming broth and piles of blankets had pulled him from the darkest depths of illness, but his friend's ailment was a part of him. If he pulled him out of it too quickly something could snag. On the other hand, being too slow could cause him to drown.  
Could.

He tightened his grasp on the sides of his head, his mind screaming. He's basing everything on guesses. Without talking to Bucky, he can't know what's going on. Had he changed since they fought on the helicarrier? Maybe, possibly; but how was he ever going to find out if he never talked to him?

He had to remind himself Bucky’s only been there for a day-a day that he'd needed to calm down to a rational point. It wasn't like he hadn't talked to him as Steve to Bucky in almost 80 years- oh right. That was what happened.

He swore that if he stayed quiet enough, he could hear his friend’s breathing through the concrete wall behind the monitors.

Tomorrow is a new day.  
New day, new energy.  
New chances to see Bucky.


	8. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3/Bucky/Present

He started counting as soon as he woke up.  
In the small, dank concrete cell the only thing that moved was the passage of time.

He couldn't estimate how long it’d been since he got there, or even how he had, but the mental timer would at least be something to go off of.

Deafening police sirens, a suffocating mask that turned the world gray, rotten alleyways and even worse-looking people; cryptic flashes were all he had to go off of and they were just as much help as the grime on the ground.

He knew he had fallen asleep at some-point (despite his determination not to) and felt unusually well rested afterwards. That, plus the time that passed before it... he'd been there for 24 hours at least. But that was only based on estimates and guesses, nothing of any solidness in terms of information. For all he knew, he could’ve been asleep for weeks.

He reached for his earpiece, the knives in his shoes (one in the sole and one in the upper cuff), then the razors sewn into the lining of his jacket to be used as a last resort. Unsurprisingly, they had all been removed. He felt naked despite being fully dressed.

Close your eyes, he was taught once, so long ago it seemed like a dream, focus out not in.  
He pushed the numbers into a corner of his mind, gone from the spotlight but still ticking away.

There was a door. Locked from the outside, but still a possibility. Four cement walls that met at eight sharp corners to create a 10x8 rectangle with a height of an estimated seven feet. No windows, but the fluorescents were bright enough, blindingly so. Yet another thing he could use to escape if he could break the plastic shield over them.

 _There's got to be something else I can use here._ It was hard. The prison, camp, or whatever he was locked away in was made for much stronger enemies. He touched the edge of the bed cautiously, letting the ringing sound of metal hitting metal talk to him in ways his other senses couldn't.

Soundproof walls. Should've known.

He laid his head against the wall, bringing the timer back into his foremost thoughts. Until someone came through that door he wouldn't be able to get any hints of where he was, and even then that was being optimistic.

 

It was around 3,678 seconds that the first hint of life appeared. Clad in a white shirt that barely held his muscled chest, the man was an intimidating specimen, even to him.

“Hey,” Despite his advantage over him, the man spoke with a wavering voice.

There was a shuffle of fabric behind him, and a red-headed women stepped in. Either the man was ignorant, or was already aware, because he never acknowledged her presence. Green, snake-like eyes shone at him. They were cold, but he felt strangely unthreatened.

The door closed behind her, and he was suddenly reintroduced to the situation at hand; and how he should escape it.

He could try to fight his way through to the door. It was a one way lock, as most cell locks are, so the man and his companion most likely left it unlocked so they could go back through it when they finished whatever this is. He looked up into the man’s eyes, trying to find anything useful in the depths of the soft blue pools. Where am I? Who are you? Why am I here? The questions flooded his mind but he forced his mouth to stay shut. He would not ask them until later, for he wasn't sure if he was prepared for the answers just now.

“Buck?”

He'd heard that name before. That voice. The way the man’s lips moved as they said it.

Pain enveloped his chest in dull, eager throbs.  
Something deep inside of him was wrong, a gear was stuck-- no, that isn’t it; he’d felt that type of pain before and this was different, _deeper.  
_ This was a gear that was going the _wrong direction;_ and he could feel it shifting inside of him like one would feel the twisting of a knife.

There’d been silence so far, the two strangers had been waiting for him to respond apparently; not the other way around. Initiating conversation had been frowned on back in Hydra. For kidnappers, they sure hadn’t done their research.

After some long period of unspoken debate between the two, the man spoke again. This time his voice was even softer, like he was talking to a stray dog. He did not seem to realize that stray dogs can be just as powerful as wolves. “Do you know who I-” He glanced back at the cold woman behind him, “- _we_ are?”

Was he supposed to? There was a moment of confusion as he forced himself to look at their faces. There was nothing familiar about the two of them. Red hair, green eyes, slender figure- blonde hair, blue eyes, large figure; average persons in an unaverage situation. In fact, the only thing that was abnormal was the softness the man showed towards him. That, and the increasingly worrying way that he seemed to be expecting something of him.

The woman’s voice was just as frigid as her stance. “Как тебя зовут, солдат? _(What’s your name, Soldier?)_ ”

He hadn’t spoken once throughout his time as their captive, and yet somehow they (or at least she) knew one of his fluent languages? It was unnerving. Maybe these strangers had done their research; question was, _how much?_

“Котор один? _(Which one?)_ ”

Her red lips pulled taut with an unreadable emotion. The feeling that she knew more than he did was unwelcome, to say the least.

It was obvious that the brute in front of him had no idea of the words they traded, as he looked back at his partner with furrowed brows. _“What’s he saying?”_ He mouthed.

She held her arms to her chest tightly, enough that her nails cut into her skin like razors. “He’s--” She trailed off, opting to just shake her head instead of speaking.

The atmosphere of the room shifted. It was never a relaxed situation to begin with, but now everything seemed faster, more worried. It was like the way an ER waiting room is quiet until an ambulance pulls up. The feeling was contagious.

“You, you don’t remember? Anything?” The man kept his voice soft despite his visible tenseness.  
“мы будем Приносить Вы Пища позже. _(We’ll bring you food later.)_ ” She put a hand on his shoulder, “It’s time to go, Steve.”

Sighing, the man pushed himself out of his crouching position, his eyes never leaving him until the woman closed the door behind them.

 _Steve._ He whispered the name to himself, letting the word sink in. There was something strange about it; how it felt as it rolled off his tongue like he’d said it a million times before.

_Steve…_


	9. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4/Steve/Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I kinda modeled this off of my own experiences with mental illness. I don't have PTSD, but I do have severe anxiety that can manifest itself in hallucinations/delusions and occasionally seizures so I'm using my experiences a ref. Medication is a very important thing, but it always takes some getting used to and even I struggled with the stigma of being on medication when I first started taking it, so with Steve coming from the 40's, I can't even imagine how hard it must've been.

It happened in the early hours of the day. The sun had just begun to climb when the voice reached his ears. The chilling sound sent him jumping, the bed springs screaming under his weight.  
Something was happening downstairs, but his mind could not understand what. Blades of light stabbed at his eyes from the window, he could hear a chilling crash below him.

Steve started yelling before his hand had even reached the door knob.  
“Guys!” The door swung into the wall behind it with a crack, “Something-” He froze, but his heart beat stayed violent. The hallway way was empty, the doors closed.  
Had no one heard it?

He took inventory of his surroundings, the large windows let the sun turn the beads of sweat into glistening diamonds. With a sickening thump of his heart, he realized that maybe the sound had never happened.

This had happened before, though not for some months. He’d awaken full of fear and fight but find nothing but silence. Heavy silence that threatened to choke him once again.

He leaned against the doorway, his body throbbing with unspent adrenaline. Negligence had caused this, not Hydra or the thousand other enemies he’d made; just negligence, which can be worst enemy of all.  
He glanced back into his room, past the bed and into the shadows. That’s where the pills were; his pills.

Natasha would want to know about this.

With a sigh he pushed himself off of the wall. The sweat that stuck to his clothes chilled him to the bone, but nowhere as much as the fear did.  
As he stumbled towards the room he was aware of every sound, every fiber of the carpet that carried his raw feet and every thud of his heart. He was aware of the fear, the anxiety, the black tunnel in the back of his mind and the splintering wood planks blocking it.  
The period of mental dormancy had been but a pause in the battle; the numbing silence that follows an airstrike.  
The enemy is retaliating.

The metal bit at his skin as he knocked, a sensation he welcomed.

"Come in," said a far off voice inside.

The door opened to reveal more darkness. He wasn't sure if the dimmed lights were supposed to as threatening as they were; but they also weren't the most prevalent problem at the time.

Natasha sat on the bed, stripping her gun like she did in the basement last night. She had a freshly-sharpened knife next to her as well, the edge of it sparkled in the moonlight filtering through her window. “Can't sleep?” She kept her eyes locked on the gun, “I’m-” Green eyes met blue and she froze, “Steve? What's wrong?”

His hand trembled as he ran it over his face, still sticky with sweat. “There was- I was--” The words were there in his head, like a page of a book waiting to be read, but he found himself struggling to do so. Somehow over the last minute they had become an unfamiliar language.

Ever so observant, Natasha’s steady hand pulled him towards the edge of the bed.  
“Have you been taking the pills?” She spoke as if he already had.

Steve shook his head no.

“It's a stressful time right now.” She lazily massaged his shoulder. “Which is why now, more than ever, it is important to listen to the therapist and take the pills.”

He worried his lip between his teeth. “I-I don't need them.”

“You need to take them, Steve.” She looked up into his eyes, letting her hand drop from the rigid muscle. “As your friend I’m telling you to take them.”

There are many things worse than a pill. Trust him, he's taken all of them; bullets, needles, you name it he's suffered through it. But something about a pill, _that_ pill, made him feel different; like it took a part of him away.

“Things, _stigmas,_ have changed since the ’40s. You of all people should know that.” The foam filled the imprint of her body, removing any hints that she had sat there at all. “Stay here.” She said softly, “I'll go get your meds.”


	10. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5/Bucky/Present

The redhead held out the plate for him, waiting for the acceptance that never came. After depositing it onto the bed, she sat down only feet away with an unsettling aura of calmness.  
“Are you ready to speak now? In English? You and I both know you can speak it.”

Why was English necessary? They both spoke Russian, and English had not been his first language for awhile. Perhaps speaking in English gave the woman comfort (not like she needed any more.) “How much,” he paused, throat dry but didn't dare retrieve the glass of water from the bed, “do you know?”

Her gaze was cool yet maintained the sharpness of someone who knew what they were doing. It was kind of like the flavor of mint, the green of which would match her eyes. “Enough to be a threat.”

Good. Now they were both threats. The question is who was the bigger threat in this situation? “Where's your friend?” He did a cursory look around the room, “The blonde one?”

“He tends to let emotions interfere with his work.” she said, “That's why it's just you and me here.”

Emotions. Emotions are bad things; make you weaker. Or at least, that's what he's been told. Did he have emotions? Did she? “And why _are_ you here?”

She seemed satisfied by the question, “I've got a few questions. Off the record.”

He nodded his head. That's understandable. And he already had pre-approved fabrications that he could answer with, so a few questions wouldn't hurt anyone (except maybe her.)

“Let's start simple.” She leaned forwards curiously, “Why were you found wandering the streets of Brooklyn?”

“I was searching for my rendezvous point.”

“Yes, but aren’t they supposed to he near the mission?” Cocking her head to the side, almost mockingly, “your mission was in Washington D.C.”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. These were not the questions he had expected, and had no lie at the ready for them. “They moved it.”

“They never made one,” she said bluntly, “and I think a part of you knows that.”

He shook his head. No. There was one. There’s _always_ one. His comm had broken and so he didn't get the coordinates, that's all.

“They never expected you to make it out of the helicarrier alive.” Unrelenting, she continued, “That was to be your last mission.”

That's a lie. They wouldn't have sent him out there if they knew that. _But,_ he thought solemnly, _they did strip him of some weapons._ He thought that had been to lessen the weight.

She took no notice of his confusion, or if she did she didn't address it. Instead she moved into the next question as if the first one had never happened, leaving him to sort out his thoughts himself.  
“You've shot me twice.” She pointed to her stomach, then her shoulder, “Do you remember either of them?”

He felt as if this question had no right answer. Anything he said would be useful to her. “I've shot a lot of people. I can't remember all of them.”

“Yes, but I'm the only one who lived to tell the tale.”

He looked at her again. The only detail that left any sort of impression on him was the red hair, which, somehow, he knew was natural. “No.”

She nodded her head, expression unreadable. She paused as she got up, “We’ll continue later. The questions are not over.”

He had a feeling they never would be.


	11. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6/Steve/Present

Three days had passed since their last conversation (if you could call it that). Since then, nothing but a “thank you for the food” and a depressing aura passed between them. Natasha had to have talked to Bucky at some point over the last few days, as he wasn’t terrified of them anymore.

He held the door open with the toe of his shoe as he slid the plate to the man in the corner. Bucky looked the same as he did on the first day, covered in dirt and blood that had turned to black over time. It was a sad sight; a young man with determination in his eyes to this trembling figure. 

God help Hydra when he finds them.

A voice broke the silence as he turned to go. “I know who you are.”

Maybe it was his hopeful thinking, or the blindness of friendship, but something inside of him came alive. Tuning to face him, he choked out a weak, “You do?”

Bucky nodded his head, knotted hair falling over his eyes that never seemed to look right at him.

He crouched down in front of him, as he did when he first came here, and despite what happened then he still felt the glimmer of hope in his chest. “And who am I, B-?” He didn’t dare say the name, as he knew it would move him to tears if the man recognized it as his own.

The whites of his eyes contrasted strongly against the dark blue, the ones that have been at his side since the very beginning. 

That's how Steve knew there was something off.

“You're my mission.”

Steve's head slammed against the concrete with a crack, metal plates slid into position around his neck like a collar. Something warm ran down his neck. The name ripped through his chest like fire, but only a whisper came out; "You’re not-"

Pistons hissed, gears moved, and the hand around his neck grew tighter.

He was vaguely aware that his feet weren't on the ground.

"Steve?"

Natasha. He couldn't turn his head, he could barely breathe as it was. The dry sound he made felt like razor blades in his throat. He tried to kick him, to gain some sort of leverage in his losing battle. All he needed was the movement of a metal finger to let him breathe; but that wasn't Bucky's goal.  
Again. He swung his foot, unconsciousness and heart keeping any real force from backing it.  
Maybe Natasha was right. He's thinking too emotionally; and now he's going to die for it like she'd warned him.

Dark shadows of indistinguishable shapes threatened the edges of his vision, and the water gathering in his eyes only worsened the situation.

"Steve, I need to talk to you." She called from outside. Outside the door her footsteps quickened with every passing second, as did his breathing (or lack thereof.)  
The electronic clicking of the outside keypad was the only thread left for him to hold onto, to save him from the dark unconsciousness that waited to strike. But it was weak, and when the door opened he couldn't see anything but a silhouette there.

Natasha was not an avid curser; she was able to keep the foul language to a minimum during even the dire situations.  
But this was different.  
 _“Shit”_ was the only warning Bucky got.

She slammed into him, body against body, assassin vs assassin. Past teammates fighting against each other as opposed to _with._

A metal arm reached behind him with a screech as it hit the concrete, the rest of him hit with a dull thud.  
He never had a chance.  
As he slid down the wall, a streak of bright blood followed his head like a morbid contrail.

Natasha spun to face him, her chest heaving, “Steve-”

“I’m fine.” He coughed as he pushed himself away from the wall, back of head throbbing from where it hit the concrete, “I’m fine.”

Natasha looked behind him at the lightly bloodied wall, then back at him in disbelief.

“I said I'm fine.”

“Stop saying that.” She grabbed his shoulders gruffly and spun him around. “You're going to need stitches.”

He just shook his head in response, but deep down he knew she was right.

She had been right since the very beginning, actually. He had been thinking too emotionally and allowed himself to be blinded by past relationships. Had he listened, his friend might not have fractured skull now. But it always has to be too late when he finally listens, doesn’t it?  
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” he asked as she led him through the door, “He-”

“He’ll be fine. Right now I’m worried about you.”

He glanced back through the doorway, through the bright line of light that the outside fluorescents cast inside, and at the visible pair of black boots.  
Inside his throat there was a hard lump, and it seemed like everything below it had turned to led. His lungs, heart, stomach, all felt like they were being squeezed by an invisible, but unignorable, palm.  
He was surprised that his feet managed to stay on top of the tile, as opposed to sinking into it.

“He didn’t remember me,” Steve said once back up in the main lobby, with so much pain that it felt like the words had been branded on his skin.

Natasha looked up from the first aid kit, overstocked in preparation for the almost daily injury. “Oh really?” He winced as she pressed an antiseptic pad against his scalp. “And here I thought he was just choking you for fun.”  
Conversation halted as she told him to follow her finger with his eyes, leading to other medical formalities.

“You could really work on your bedside manner,” he said, only half-joking. “ _Jesus!_ What did you put on that thing?!”

She taped the edges of the soft gauze down with familiar, silent movements. The silence was thick and suffocating, like a soaked cloth that had been placed over his face.

“You told me so.” His jaw rippled, “Is that what you're waiting to hear?”

She shook her head with a sigh, “Maybe, but I was hoping it would come before you got hurt.”

A reluctant apology was on his lips, but another sting of ointment on his neck silenced him; apparently the plates of Bucky’s hand had pinched off some skin during the fight. “What are going to do about-”

“I'll clean him up, and we'll go from there,” she said, cutting him off, “I didn't hurt him nearly as bad as he hurt you.”  
It didn't seem possible considering the blood on the cell wall, but he didn't push the topic further. After the events of the last hour, he was starting to realize that Natasha might be the only person he can trust.


	12. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7/Bucky/16 December 1991 (memory)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I used google translate for this. I only provided the English translations for dialogue that is important (for the "effect")

The chilling sound of twisting, snapping metal on impact was like a roar. It echoed through the trees, seemingly traveling on nothing but the winter air and tiny backs of fleeing animals to reach whatever ears it could.

There was a reason why they were miles away from civilization.

Aside from the aforementioned sound, the only other audible thing in the area was the hum of his bike; despite the failing silencers, the other modifications were a thing of beauty; or at least, that's what everyone said. He never did have the time to find out why.

Trees whizzed past him like a never ending strip of menacing green, only interrupted by the occasional dying streetlight that cast an orange glow on the road ahead. Nights like these were his favorites; an occurrence that he rarely got to indulge in with his line of work. Full moon, clear sky, and trees reaching into it like they had once been the hands used to scatter the stars.

It was a nice change from the cell wall.

The smell of smoke brought him back to the road in front of him; a metal chunk was stuck between the edge of the tar and a tree. All that's left is to check it--he kicked out the bike stand--the hardest part had been done before they even got into the car. 

A trail of oil led into the resting place of the the couple, then started to pool around the headlights where the man's head had fallen after being launched through the window. Definitely dead. Check.  
The passenger's side was a mess of talcum powder and blood, neither of which avoided mixing. Bun long since falling out, her fading blonde hair acted as a curtain for the unnatural angle of her neck. He turned to go--there was nothing else for him here and he had a deadline to meet--but something caught his attention.

It might've just been the wind, or a piece of the airbag that flapped around like a delayed white flag, but he swore the thin chain that hung down her chest moved.  
 _-Zzzt-Вы Находятся Бег Поздно---zzzt (You are running late)_ said the speaker tucked into his ear, connection abnormally bad.  
The inside of his mask was steamy and hot, long trips on motorcycle tended to do that, but his one-word reply carried, “Очистка.” He placed a freezing hand on the woman’s face, the black leather of the glove covered her mouth while his finger stayed under her nose.  
 _Десять, девять, восемь, семь, шесть, пять, четыре…_

Body convulsing, it was all the proof he needed. She was still breathing; or, she _had been._  
He pulled his hand back, unbeknownst to the gasping woman that he was reaching for the gun at his side. How the hell is she even still alive? He shook his head and cocked the pistol; strange things happen all the time-

She grabbed at his face, a last resort driven by the pure human instinct to stay alive. But instinct can be an enemy of the not controlled, clouding one’s thoughts from developing a strategy and instead sending them lashing out like a feral animal. That's the _real_ person. A heel stabbed into his hand, sending a bullet into the earth beneath him. This was getting annoying. He grabbed her outstretched on. While he may not be able to feel the warmth of her skin, he could feel the snap of tendons under his silver fingers. 

There was a deafening wail as she she pulled back her mangled appendage. Her broken neck had apparently just been a trick of the hovering streetlight.   
A shame really; it would've made things a lot easier for the both of them. 

He wasn't sure how exactly, but there was a sudden, dizzying moment as the night air hit his face. It felt like ice on the sweat. His mask lay on the ground, rocking ever so slightly from the wind. The speaker that had ripped from his ear swung against the side of it, a wire was the only thing that kept it from rolling to the bottom where a lonely nail resided.

The woman’s face went white, not at her nail or fractured arm, but at him. She did not scream as he retrieved his gun from the gravel, or when the speaker came to life with a squeaky, inaudible voice. All she did was whisper, “James?”

He had the barrel to her forehead, the conclusion to the fight, and yet he hesitated.

Her glassy blue eyes lifted to his face. “James, he-” she spared a look at her husband, the lips she had kissed just moments ago were now glossed with blood, “- _we_ thought you were dead.” Her voice grew fainter, but held the same rasp, “What are you doing?”

He felt a strange heaviness descend on him that he couldn’t lift nor find the source of. It made him feel… weak.

She wiped a bead of blood from the corner of her mouth, showing just the slightest of worry before turning back to him. “James-”

“Stop saying my name!” He shook his head violently, finger hovering over the the trigger.   
That's not his name.  
He didn't have a name.  
So why did it feel right?  
 _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes 107th infantry 32557038- why do I know this?_

The metal of his arm slammed into his thigh, then hung there twitching. What the hell?

“If you let Howard and I go we can help you.” She pleaded, either ignorant or in denial of her husband’s condition.

He wanted to scream at her again, but instead let the movement of his finger do the talking. She wept into the open air, her hands too weak to wipe the tears away, “James, please don't-”

The kick felt like nothing against his shoulder, and for the first time he wished it did.

There's a signature feeling that comes from sadness; a strange absence of thought.  
The weight was gone from his shoulders but some parts of it stayed, lodging themselves into his throat and deep into his heart. He'd never had that feeling nor did he ever want it. So when something warm suddenly started running down his face and the rusty organ in his chest began to ache, he took it as a sign that he was dying. And there was a small part of him that liked the idea.

The gun fell to the ground, the only noise came from his knees as they met the gravel.

He shouldn't be feeling this way. He'd been given a mission, and he completed it. And yet for some reason the victory sat heavy in his stomach, as if he'd done something wrong. Tears darkened the grey stones beneath him and blurred his vision, but he couldn't make them stop. Things were fine and yet they kept coming and coming and coming with no sign of stopping. His arm screeched against the rocks as it seized by its own accord, but he did nothing. The arm wasn't his. And his body felt like a borrowed suit that’s too long at the sleeves.

He lay down among the grit and blood, only slightly aware of his own trembling and injuries. Who was the man she spoke of? The man he knows so much about and yet couldn't feel more like a stranger? He shut his eyes tightly, trying to think of why this might be. He looked through the people he knew, all of them from the lowest rank in Hydra to the highest, and yet the only one who fit the name was himself.

But they said he didn't have one.

_-zt--Забастовка в пути--zrrr(Strike team on their way)_ crackled the tiny speaker, but his thoughts were too loud for him to hear.


	13. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8/Steve/Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is unconscious btw (in case I didn't make it obvious enough).

Bucky had been moving for some time, but he had remained still by his side.

“Don't touch him,” Natasha had warned, “Wake me up if something happens.” It looked like she might be getting her first full night of sleep tonight, as nothing had happened and didn't seem to have any intention to.

Last time Steve had seen him, the real him, was almost 80 years ago. Despite this, their friendship had continued and defied all odds (of which there were many), even if it was only one-sided at the present moment.

Police had, of course, taken most of his weapons when he was unconscious in the holding cell, but neither Natasha or Steve had the intention to pick them up. As for the suit, Bucky never let anyone get close enough to take it off. He supposed he could do it now, then swap them with something else before he opened his eyes, but that was a tempting line that Steve refused to cross. 

The suit was made of suffocating leather, cut into a mockingly similar pattern as the one he wore on that day. A button hung by a thread down his chest and crude lines jarred against the fabric from an attempted repair. He wasn't sure what theory made him more upset: someone from Hydra made the stitches, or that Bucky did them himself. A sickening scene popped into his head, where Bucky tried to fix the suit with shaking hands, making the same stitches he'd used on his own wounds just moments ago.  
 _No,_ he forced the image out, _nothing could have just injured him like that._

What the hell did he fight?

Traveling up and down his sleeves were tiny, dark holes. It looked more like corkboard than it did leather, and some holes had connected and formed small tears.  
Steve corrected himself: what did they _make_ him fight?

The man whimpered in his sleep, tormented by some nightmare Steve wished he could wake him up from, or enter his mind and fight it alongside him like old times.  
Two men, one enemy; no strange alien spacecraft or brainwashing, just some good ol’ simple violence.  
 _Don't think,_ he used to tell himself, _just do what feels right._ And, man, punching nazis was the only fight that ever felt that way.  
But the future is too complex for that.

The guilt was a weight he'd grown used to, he had no choice but to do otherwise really, but that didn't mean it affected him any less. There are pills for the depression, flashbacks, hallucinations, and even nightmares, but a pill that could remove the heaviness from his chest was apparently too much to ask for. Sometimes certain pills will make him fall asleep quicker, but that was just temporary relief.

So many useless pills and so little time; when Natasha made him take them last week it had been the first time in months. He couldn't say he missed it. He looked to his friend’s sleeping figure, curled up in a fetal position unfitting to the clothes he wore. This might be, Steve feared, the closest he could get to the person hidden underneath.  
What have they done to you Buck? What did they do to you that I could've stopped?

If he could relive that day again, like he had so many times in his head, he would've switched places in an instant. Captain America would read the monument, and maybe far off in a field of identical stone slabs would be a place for Steve Rogers, the piece of the super soldier that people always seemed to forget. And Bucky, well, he'd be upset, but he'd be spared from this and that's all Steve could ever ask for.

He almost touched him; almost touched the skin he still couldn't believe was real, but a whimper of pain stopped him dead. He hadn't laid a finger on him, yet Bucky acted like he'd pinched him (and with the heaviness in his chest, Steve felt like he might as well have.)

Lonely and depressed, he began to talk. Anything that popped into his head he made conversation of, no matter the topic or the fact his audience was unconscious. He could only imagine that he'd say something the man could hear. “Remember my apartment? I bought it back awhile ago.” He smiled to himself, “Smaller than I remember, and the wallpaper was changed, but it's the same apartment we know and love. Even still has the little scorch marks on the door of the cupboard from that one time I tried to make scrambled eggs.” There was a pause as his gut tightened, the memories were sweet but that only made recalling them now even more painful. “Had you not been there I probably would've burnt the entire complex down. Did you know that they make alarms that can sense smoke now? For houses? Only a bit bigger than a fist but the noise they make is unbelievably loud! First time I heard one I got so scared it took me hours to calm down.” He didn't mention that most of that time included him trying to warn everyone of the bombs falling from the sky; bombs that apparently only he could see. Air strike sirens and smoke detectors with low batteries really shouldn't sound so similar. “Many things have changed, some for the better, some for worse… Health care definitely improved. Not like I have much use for it these days, though. You'll be happy to hear needles have decreased in size, I know how much you hate them despite that brave act you’d put on when getting one in front of me.”

The man stayed silent.

“Thanks for that by the way,” Saying these things is always easier when the recipient is unconscious, “Probably wouldn't be sitting here today if you hadn't.” The last part could be applied to almost everything Bucky had ever done for him.  
“I'm going to get you better,” he said after a minute of painful silence, “I promise.”


	14. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9/Bucky/ 1:20 AM 17 December 1991 (memory)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire work is based off of Riakomai's art, but this one especially.

He tasted blood.

The man paced across the room, mumbling obscenities under his breath. Sometimes they were German, other times English, it was a blind pick on which language he'd switch to.  
The man turned to him, "You hesitated."

It hurt to talk, but being silent would just hurt more. The split lip gave him a small lisp. "I thought I heard a car approaching."

Zola jolted back as if he had been the one to be hit. "You. thought. you. Heard. A. Car. Approaching." Each word was punctuated with a small amount of saliva. He grabbed the side of his face, thumb digging into the soft flesh under his chin.

The soldier did nothing but stare into the man's eyes.

"Don't you ever lie to me." His blunt nails dug into his cheek, still stinging from the earlier slap. "I saved your life; I deserve your honesty." The doctor lowered his hand after one last torturing squeeze. “We found you writhing on the ground. Care to explain why?”  
It was not a question.  
He opened his mouth to speak, the red crescents on his cheek pulling taut. “The woman--the target’s wife--she said something to me.”

“Something?”

“A name.” That was really all it was. And yet, the feeling it gave sent warmth through his chest; like he was being embraced by some long lost friend. He knew it would be hard to stop, painful even, but he couldn't let this man take that away from him. “I can't remember it.”

His lips drew into a thin line, rage bubbling just under the surface, “I thought I told you not to lie to me, Soldier.”

“I’m not-” His voice cracked in betrayal, “I’m not lying.”

White-coated shoulders rose and fell slowly as the man’s resolve crumbled, and he braced himself for another sting of the palm, but it never came.

“I think you and I both know that isn't true.”

He didn't respond. What was the point? You can't just change someone's mind like that, especially when it's someone as stubborn as him.

Squinted eyes stared at him through the small round glasses, only relaxing after a scrutinizing look. “Your room is ready,” he said, changing the topic even though he was winning, “A full, written report of the mission is to be delivered in the briefing room by tomorrow.” Looking him up and down, he added, “Try and get some rest, would you? Wouldn't want you going all haywire just from fatigue.”

Yes. Of course. Because _fatigue_ is what he should really be worried about.

***************************************************

He woke up panicked with questions about things he didn't even understand. _Who-What-Why--?_ Dreams were a rare occurrence, and be that as they may, he could still recognize them, but that… that hadn't felt like one. Scientifically, almost all dreams are based off of events, people, or feelings experienced (sometimes all three). Problem was, those people he saw were unlike any he'd ever communicated with.

A frail, faint man was the only one that left any significant imprint on him, the rest of the faces felt out-of focus, like background noise. Maybe it was the depressing way his body seemed to shake regardless of the situation, or the way that he still treated the world with kindness even though it never gave him any in return, but it made his heart ache with a strange longing. The man had shown him kindness in the dream. _Him,_ who was deserving of none. Did he know who he was treating so warmly? That the man he'd treated like family had killed before? It seemed not. But perhaps he thought he was someone else, as he did call him James.

Was that the same James the woman had mistaken him for? Did the man he'd seen in his dreams and the woman he'd seen in his nightmares know each other?

They'd both called him the same name, mistaken him as the same person. Something deep inside of him whispered the theory _What if it wasn't a mistake?_

He had to push the thought away, his head throbbing. _Sleep first, questions later._ At this rate, Zola might've been right in saying fatigue would be the end of him.

He took in his surroundings, the majority of which included the comforting walls of his “enclosure” as he heard some soldiers call it. But no matter what it was called, it had been one of the only things to stay the same over the years; the one thing he could trust to never change. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the one flesh hand he had, and pushed the thin blanket off of him sourly.

Something had happened yesterday, the thought pushed back into focus. That he was sure of; what it was he had no clue. He just felt… different; _lost_ even.  
But he couldn't exactly say it felt _bad._


	15. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10/Bucky/20 December 1991 (memory)

450 volts for six seconds, ten second break, then do it again until deemed fit. That was how it usually went, and he was prepared for it.  
Today, however, he was told it would be different; 500 volts for ten seconds, five second break. 

Lucky for them, he was already in the chair when they said it.

"Why?" he asked, though the answer was clear. They could deny it, put him through a hundred rounds of electricity and turn his brain to charcoal, but in that moment he knew. He'd felt something. Everything they did confirmed it. He'd felt something that had slipped through the cracks of his mind, and they were determined to make sure it never happened again.

"Bi-monthly wipe. Standard routine." said the nurse standing near the door, clipboard in hand. Liar.

The metal restraints bit into his wrists like dull knives. At some point (though he couldn't remember when), somebody had lined the insides of the cuffs with cloth to keep him from injuring himself. That somebody wasn't there anymore, and neither was most of the fabric. The only thing it did these days was leave imprints on his skin.

There was chatter behind him, and out of instinct he tensed. He was fearless, as was needed for his role in Hydra, but whenever he saw a needle some small part deep inside of him panicked. That fear was reinforced constantly; every session the needle grew larger, the selected injection sites more sensitive and obscure. He had to wonder if they had found out about that single weakness of his. Maybe they saw a flash of activity in his amygdala when a needle was brought out during a brain scan; decided exposure therapy would be the best was to treat it.  
Whatever it was, it wasn’t working.

He couldn't turn his head to see the men behind him (damn restraints), but his ears were good enough.

“Has anyone talked to the doctor about this?”  
A sigh, “It’s his toy. If he breaks it it’s no one’s fault but his own.”

As the fist of hydra, he was no stranger to life threatening situations, but a blood red flag rose at the word “break.” Death was something he readied himself for on every mission, and what he forced onto those he was told, but being broken was an entirely different thing.  
He understood that he already was, in a way, broken. Metal limbs don't just appear for aesthetics; but he could move and breathe and speak and do all the things that come with living. He even had a _purpose._  
The broken they spoke of was more than just a missing limb, he assumed.

Crinkling paper brought his attention back to the front of the room, where a nurse peeled the backing off of a set of electrodes. He'd never get used to the wipes they used, the way the scent clung to him for days after like some sanitary ghost. He could feel their chill on the sides of his head as someone rubbed at the skin. Not even the welts from the last wipe session were spared from the stinging antiseptic.

There was a pinch, followed by the familiar feeling of a muscle relaxant spreading through his veins. Only then did the doctor make an appearance.

The white coat hung to his ankles, having not been made for someone of his stature, and yet he filled it like it was. “Soldier!” he exclaimed, “how are you feeling today?”

Horrible. “Fine, sir.” he said straightening.

“That's always good to hear.” The man nodded approvingly, as if he really cared and like the answer could've affected the current situation. “You were briefed on the changes to the routine, yes?”

He nodded his head.

“Good, good.” He turned to the assistant behind the chair, the same one that had been openly sharing his disagreement with the plan (until the doctor walked in). “Everything ready?”  
“Almost.”

He jolted at the sound of pistons and mechanical humming as the machine was brought to life, and his chair was adjusted to accommodate the metal as it closed in around him.

“Mouth.” A nurse stuffed the piece of plastic in his mouth without warning. Not like he needed one, he knew what to expect by now.

“On your command, Doctor.”

Someone touched his hand, patted it, actually. The headpiece kept him from seeing who it was, but he knew of only one man with enough sympathy do it (even if it's faked). He’d learned early on to not resist. Resisting only made things more painful, longer, and that’s the last thing he wanted. So he braced himself, evened his breathing (or at least tried to), but did nothing else but wait for the fated word.

“Commence.”

It raced through his head, making the backs of his eyelids flash white and making his mind go crazy.

It made him feel cold, like the winter he was supposed to be.


	16. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11/Bucky/????????

He was falling. Then he wasn't. Then he was.

The ravine seemed undecided on how he would die; by rock or by impact? Both? But he really didn't care. He was going to die. He knew it the moment he felt the icy wind touch his back from the open doors of the train car. Steve had halted the feeling temporarily, given him some hope, but hope is a cruel thing that only made this feel worse.

Some parts of him had gone numb awhile ago. Doesn't matter if it was a stroke, heart attack, or just the general fear that comes from falling at an unbelievable speed, but he was thankful for it. However, he could still hear the crack of splintering bones and the tearing of flesh and fabric, no matter how loud the wind might've been howling in his ears.  
And then it stopped.

Everything was still, even the snowflakes seemed to pause in their descent out of some strange notion that death was not something to be interrupted.  
But he wasn't dying. Or maybe he was. Perhaps he was already dead, as he couldn't feel himself breathing.

The ice was cold on his tongue and stung at his body, the side of his face submerged in it felt stiff. He seemed to drift for awhile, stuck in some torturous purgatory between consciousness and unconsciousness, but like all things it came to an end, the black curtains closing. 

The snow tasted like iron.  
**********************************************************************

The pain was dull, neutralized by some strange cocktail of chemicals he didn't recall taking. Actually, he really couldn't recall anything but the feeling of wind rushing past his body, nipping at his nose and roaring in his ears. But he was in a room, blurry as it may be, with no windows or open doors to let in any drafts as strong as this.

Movement to his left startled him as he tried to push himself up hands were on him in an instant pushing him back down onto the cushioned table. “Please lay down, sir.” said a heavily accented voice. Something soft was pressed into his face, it smelled like it had been dipped in sugar water.  
Their voices became warped to him, as if it was a foreign language no one had bothered to teach him. What the hell happened, he wanted to ask, but his throat was raw and tasted of blood, and he wasn't sure if they would understand him even if it wasn't.

Something sharp and cold pricked his skin, but the most he could do was glance at it with glassy eyes.  
A needle, though he wasn't sure what else he expected. This was a medic tent. It was the only thing that made sense. However, as the cloth was pulled away from his nose he came to realize that it didn't carry the distinctive dusty undertones of one.  
Was he in a hospital?

He tried to reach out, grab someone and ask them the questions that swarmed his head, but he found that he could not. The fingers of his right hand were paralyzed, the fingers of his left hand he couldn't see. Actually, the only thing he could see on his left side was the glint of light on a metal blade.

He couldn't feel it what caused it, but something was beeping rapidly next to him that caused numerous people to rush forwards with vials and needles and other things used too quickly for him to see, let alone understand.  
 _Please someone tell me what's going on,_ he thought terrified, _please just tell me why I'm here._  
His terror did not last long though, as whatever they pumped him full of started up again and dragged him into an answerless sleep.

The last thing he heard was the shutter of a saw and the smell of burning metal.


	17. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12/Bucky/???????? (memory)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is this written like the first paragraph of The Hobbit???? Idk

He asked where he was, and they said _“no where.”_

He asked who he was, and they said _“no one.”_

He asked what he was, and they said _“nothing. But we'll make you something.”_

The room was quiet and dank, with a single chair in the center of the room. In this chair sat a man, hunched over and trembling but by some strange compulsion never let his eyes close. An arm was tucked against his chest like the injured wing of a bird, the other hung by his side limply and made his body lean to the left just the slightest.

It was an odd sight, even odder when you learn that he’s dead. Or, at least he should be, but some demon decided that the story wasn't going to end so easily, and added another chapter.

The man thought nothing of this though, he actually didn't think of anything at all. His mind was empty of everything but the basic knowledge of how to eat and drink and do the other things required for life.

His mind was a blank slate, which was exactly why the doctor on the other side of the wall was so happy.  
*****************************  
A small man paced the room in front of him, the tail of his white coat just barely touching the ground. He spoke of grandeur and a new, better world, but never told him why until the end.

“You are going to be the asset Hydra has been searching for,” he said stopping in front of him, “You are going to bring change upon this earth like a freezing winter purges the land. But, that’s the only thing you will be. We saved your _life_ so you could become that.”

The man in the chair looked to him cautiously, and shook as he spoke from an absent chill, “What was I before?”

He sighed, a strange mixture of disappointment and annoyance visible on his face. “As we've said before, you were nothing.”

Something deep inside of him stirred but he ignored it.

“Are you ready to begin, soldier?”

He swallowed hard, and pushed the words past the invisible block in his throat, “Ready to comply.”


	18. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13/Bucky/Present

He awoke to blood under his nails and arms around his chest. Not his arms, he would discover, but the arms of the man he had met when he first arrived, a man he met a long time ago but didn't realize until now.

It was calm, serene even for having just woken up covered in blood. The redhead cautiously wiped down his arm, the man had him propped up against him to where Bucky could feel his heartbeat if he focused. His eyes were still closed and his body stung with a sheen of sweat. But like all good things it couldn't last forever, and a sharp pain made him jolt.

The cold seemed more present without the man beside him; the only warmth came from a bead of blood that rolled down his ribs, presumably what the woman was trying to fix.

“You tried to rip your arm off while you were asleep,” she said, her latex-covered hands raised. The red of the blood clashed against the bright blue plastic.

He looked to his left, and with a sinking stomach he discovered that he had certainly gotten far despite being unconscious for it. At one part where the flesh met the metal the skin had been torn back by a panicked hand, only to reveal more silver beneath. He did this? He looked up to the man who’d opened his mouth to speak but shut it once it attracted attention. His face was pale, like all the blood that ran down the metal plates had been taken from _him._

“Just let me clean you up, then we won't bother you again.” she continued softly.

No, no, no, no, no. That's not what he wanted. He didn't want to be left alone. He wanted, no, needed to talk to these people. He needed to know. “Don't go,” he said, barely above a whisper, “Please.”

The man caught his gaze, but it seemed to only make him more on edge. He tensed, readying himself for the pain the words brought, “Which of you is talking right now?”

Red curls nearly slapped him in the face as the woman spun to face him, her eyes showing the emotions that she was afraid to express. Was that hope he saw?

Bucky’s chest tightened. There’d been a line between the past and him for decades, strengthened by electricity and medication, but it had started to blur without them; maybe even before he realized it.

How long ago did he become two people?

“I don't know.” He wrapped his uninjured arm around himself. The metal one wouldn't have brought any comfort anyways. “But I know you, at least I think I do.” I hope I do. Something warm and foreign rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away with the ball of his palm.

“And who do you _think_ I am?”

The woman looked at him, her gaze soft. “If you can't remember it's okay. This stuff takes time.”  
It's not okay. The man was there in his thoughts, calling him by a name that echoed in his mind, but he couldn't call back to him. He didn't know how.

“Okay.” The man took a deep breath, amplified by the hand that ran down his face. “I’ll see you later Nat.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm going out for awhile.” Shakily, the man known as Steve rubbed his eyes. It only made the redness worse. “I just-- I need to clear my head.”

Had he been her, he wouldn't have talked. The man seemed to be in a hurry to leave the room, not have a heart-to-heart. 

“You can't just-”

“Don't.” His fists were white at his sides, unmoving even though the rest of his shook.

Bucky had seen this before, seen this man swallow down painful sobs like nothing was wrong. But something was missing from the image, something that should be dripping from his nose and fists onto his white blazer. It would stain it red. He’d know, because he was always the one to scrub it out.  
_“It’s okay, Steve,” he said, wrapping an arm around the beaten boy, “You had him on the ropes.”_

The man paused, door just barely open, “What did you just say?”

His heart seized in his chest, sending out cold waves of panic with the beats. He didn't understand; he didn't say anything. Did he?

“You said something,” he said upon seeing his confusion, “What was it?”

_Is he talking to me?_ A quick glance around the room answered the question for him. He'd remembered something but that's it, he didn't actually say it out loud, right? He swallowed hard. Perhaps he had, and he'd dug himself even deeper into the ground. “It’s okay, Steve,” he said softly, as it was the only way he could speak without being a stuttering mess. “You had him on the ropes.” The last part came out more like a question, but the man paid no mind. A few seconds of silence was his only answer for a million questions. “You're… Steve?”

He lowered himself onto the bed next to him, face buried in his hands. His breath hitched, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m Steve.”

The redhead looked back and forth between them, expecting something that he couldn't understand.

“I’m Steve,” he said again, nodding his head, “and you are...? Bucky?"

There it was. That name; _his_ name. And for the first time, he wasn't afraid to call it that. “Yeah. _Bucky._ ” A small smile tugged at the edges of his lips as the word rolled off his tongue. “That’s my name.”

The embrace was sudden, but had it not been he felt he might've become disappointed. Steve had initiated it, but Bucky remained hesitant to do anything more than lean into him. Were hugs supposed to be this constrictive? He didn't know, nor did he have anything to compare it to. This was new to him, but felt familiar. It felt like _home._

He let himself grab onto the man's back for support as a sob threatened his composure. If he let it escape he was afraid it would never stop.  
Neither had thought they'd ever be that close again, and yet there they were, arms around each other and hidden tears dripping onto each other's shirts. How long had it been since he felt like this?  
The woman just watched coolly, a small smile pulling at the corners of her painted lips. He had yet to remember her, but felt comforted by her presence.

“I'll get back at them for what they did to you. I promise,” Steve whispered into his neck during a pause in the tears. His breath was warm on the skin.

He laughed at that, a small sound that carried volumes.

_Two men walked away from an alley, bloody and bruised but still smiling._

“You and getting into fights…” Bucky trailed off, grabbing the memory before it could disappear. He couldn't forget; he wouldn't let himself. Once back with him, he couldn't understand how he ever survived without them. They filled an emptiness he didn't realize existed. “Never got over the habit, huh?”

“No.” He could feel the man smile against him, “Not yet.”


	19. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue/Steve/Present

Through the dust and barely existent lighting, the man’s chest was like a beacon. His shirt only slightly dimmed the blue glow. “We have an odd number of people.” An accusing glare was thrown at Bucky, who had decided to tag along on their little mission despite its location. “Nat, Cap, you two can take Mr. Amnesia. I'll go with Sam.” Tapping on the side of his helmet, he added, “If you guys find anything, report it.”

As they departed to begin their search for really anything important, Tony grabbed his arm roughy. Cold metal stung at his skin through the uniform.

“Watch him,” Tony said in a hard whisper, “If he looks even a _little_ upset-”

“I'll take him back to the Quinjet.”

He looked at Steve through squinted eyes, before pulling his hand away to shut the visor. “I'm watching you.” he gestured silently.

Shaking his head, Steve turned back the duo of assassins he'd been teamed with. “Want to start there?”  
They turned to the hallway in question, flickering, nearly dead fluorescents lined the ceiling ominously.

“Sounds good.” Natasha walked ahead of them, holding herself like she'd been to this base a million times.  
Maybe she has.

He looked to the man beside him, trying to find any sign of unease or hesitation, but he only got confusion.

“You okay, Steve?” he asked after a moment. They walked briskly, trying to catch up to the redhead who’d already begun to open a door.

He shook his head to clear his mind. _He’ll be fine. He asked to come here with us, remember? Stop worrying._ “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He clasped his shoulder with a small smile as they closed in on the doorway, inside Natasha rummaged through a filing cabinet.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said holding up a stack, “Nothing here but finance archives.”

“Is there a name on them?”

James took the files from her fingers, and skimmed the pages until he laughed. “These belong to a Dimitri Ivanov.”

“Why is that funny?” Steve asked as Natasha started to smile.

“Because,” she pushed herself up from the floor, “it’s basically the Russian version of the name John Smith.”

“It's a fake name.” Bucky elaborated.

He smiled, not at the joke (which he still couldn't understand) but at the way his friend was so relaxed despite being in an old Hydra base. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to happen, but it sure wasn't this.  
**************************  
The comms in their ear came to life with a small pop of static. “Found something. Room 2C of the east wing.”

“It's a few halls down.” Bucky said, breaking into a half-jog. His footfalls echoed through the corridor behind him.

“Private line successfully established.” a robotic voice said before giving way to the soft sound of white noise. “Do _not_ let Barnes in here.” Tony cut in, “Don't ask me why, but Natasha told me to tell you.”  
The line went silent, but his mind was screaming with questions. “Oh, and Tony out.”  
And here he thought he had something important to say.

Steve tried to catch up to him, he really did, but the man had a two minute head start and could navigate the place with his eyes closed. _Why doesn't anyone tell him about this stuff sooner?_

“Buck!” He shouted into the shadows, but all they did was smile back at him. _6B, 7B, 8B, 9B, 1C…_

Multicolored wires crawled up the walls, some bunched up together like thick veins in an electric jungle.  
Natasha stood next to Bucky, engaging in small talk he had no interest in, in a sad attempt to take the focus off of the padded chair behind them and it’s broken metal limbs.

Oh. It’s _that_ chair.

“Steve.” She turned to him, her face smiling but her eyes panicked, “I was just talking to James about how someone should go take him to make sure the Quinjet is doing okay.”

There was a crash behind him. “Oops.” Tony waved from behind the box, its buttons flickering sporadically. “Just imagine I'm not even here.”

He hadn't noticed Sam leaning casually against the wall in the corner until he spoke. “Right.” He rolled his eyes, “So we're just supposed to ignore you when you're being that loud?”

“Yes.” And with that Tony slunk back into the shadow of the computer.  
For a minute the only sound was the clicking of metal against metal as the man explored the insides of the electronic box, everyone waiting for some explosion which he would (as usual) blame on them.

“I see what you guys are doing,” Bucky said, the wires coating the walls protecting his voice from echoing, “but you guys don't have to worry about me.”  
Natasha crossed her arms cooly, “We just don't want you to-”

“To what?” His jaw rippled, “Yeah, okay, this thing took away pieces of me I might never get back, made me into some emotionless bullet Hydra could shoot at anyone.”

“Cap get him under control.”

The metal fingers tightened around each other, but he kept the fist against his side. He did not need to be controlled, he did it himself. Steve remained silent.

“I know what I've done, but you know what? I've accepted it. I’ve gotten _better._ A stupid chair isn't going to suddenly make me switch back.” He picked himself up off of the wall, arms crossed tightly like he was trying to avoid any well-meaning hands that may reach out to grab him. There were none, even as he walked out the door.

“I'll go talk to him.” Steve said after a minute, guilt for doing nothing setting in though he knew deep down had there been another chance he would've done the same thing. Being late seemed the be the only thing he was good at.

“No.” Natasha grabbed his arm, “Let's give him some time.”

Sam stepped up, just nearly missing a thin cord to the face. He grimaced, “Alone?”

“Alone.”

“What if he breaks something?” Tony blew onto a shiny green board and dust was sent flying through the air like storm clouds.

“You're the one that's going to break something.” Steve added tiredly.

“Come on, Steve. There are still rooms left to search.” She pulled him towards the door, and he reluctantly followed.

He had no doubt that there were more rooms, from the Quinjet the base filled the entire horizon, and yet it still managed to feel even bigger inside. There must've been hundreds of rooms they hadn't explored. “What if he comes back? Looking for us?”

“Sam and Tony are in there.” She turned to him, her gaze soft, “Just give him an hour or so. He'll be fine.”  
Oh, how he wished she’d be right.  
***********************  
The grated stairs were in surprisingly good shape: despite everything they only bore a few small patches of rust. Perhaps that was why Bucky sat on their landing, legs hanging off the edge as he played with his knife solemnly.

“Buck?” Next thing he knew the knife was at his throat with a blade as dark as the eyes behind it. If he wanted to get cut all he had to do was swallow.

“Sorry.”

“It-It’s okay.” He had to tilt his head to avoid the railing as he sat. From their position the entire courtyard was visible.

“I shouldn't have lashed out at your friends like that,” Bucky said softly, “I’m sorry.”

Without missing a beat, “It wasn't your fault.”

He only shook his head, knife traveling under his fingers. “I just… I’m not used to this. Being mistrusted.”

“That’s not what they-”

“I know they don't like me. I’d hate me too. So you don't need to lie to me about it.”

The words were stuck in his throat. _Nobody hates you,_ he wanted to scream, but he knew that, as much as it may hurt him, some people did. _He didn't do anything wrong. He's not the one at fault here, dammit._ No one could possibly understand; they never knew the Bucky he did, the man that was at his side during every fight regardless of it was in his own immune system or behind enemy lines. The man that was a veteran, friend, leader, POW, _victim._

His silence seemed to satisfy him as an answer, more than any words could have. They watched the silent concrete yard below them, unaware that they both were picturing people moving around down there as if the base was still operating. Of course, one of their views was formed from memory, not imagination.

“I spent most of my life here,” Bucky shook his head, lips drawing into a thin line, “But I look back on it now and it’s only flashes.”

Steve wasn't sure if it was him Bucky was speaking to, though there was no one else in the room. He stayed quiet, fixing his gaze on the dancing knife. The fluid, confident movements, however small they may be, were something that came of practice, decades of it.  
“Do you-”

Bucky turned to him, eyebrows raised curiously.

“Nevermind. It's a stupid question.”

It may have been just a trick of the horrendous lighting, but he seemed a little disappointed. “A stupid question’s still a question. Shoot.”

After reflecting on them, the words had become heavy on his tongue, yet he still craved an answer despite the feeling of selfishness they brought. “Do you ever want to forget? You know, about _it._ ”

Bucky took a deep breath, and held it while he thought. The silence seemed to stretch on forever. “All the damn time.” he replied solemnly, the knife freezing between his fingers. “But I'm not going to lie to myself. I've done bad things, some things worse than others, but it changed me.”

Steve brought himself to lean on the railing behind him, and for a long while the only audible sound was their breathing.

“There's a difference between forgetting something and never having it happen in the first place. If I were to forget what happened there'd just be a big blank where it used to be.” His eyes became glassy, “And I’m done with having blanks, Steve.”

Once again it became quiet, and he was realizing how hard it was to make conversation when neither of them really wanted it. But the silence was painful, seeming to carry on conversations of its own. 

“The others are out in the Quinjet,” Steve said softly, not able to think of anything else to say, “We- we should probably head out.”

Bucky nodded his head, “Yeah.” Steve pulled him up by the hand, as he was just a tad too tall to slip under the railing without hurting himself. The metal was cold in his grasp.

He brushed the dust off of the blue of his suit, “There's somewhere we need to stop before we leave.”

Bucky raised a single, questioning eyebrow, but let him lead the way. He didn't even ask what they were doing as Steve guided him back into the room that he had run off from just a few hours ago.

There was a click behind him, then a weight lifted from his shoulders as he took the shield off. “I know you want to.”

Bucky made no move to take it even though it was being handed to him. He didn't make any moves actually, just stood there silently as he thought.  
“I can't do it all by myself.” He said after a moment, pushing the shield back into him.

Steve laughed, nothing big but enough to get Bucky to chuckle a bit. “So,” he gestured at the room, and while he couldn't know exactly what happened, he almost could feel the past humming around him. “Where do we start?”

There was a thud as a knife landed in the thick leather of the chair. Bucky looked up at him, a small smile on his lips, “There.”


End file.
